


dawn

by khayr



Category: Runescape
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fic Rewrite, Underground Pass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khayr/pseuds/khayr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd said that death was only the beginning.</p><p>When the nightmares began, Menetae found she was starting to believe that. Left with no other options and a cursed mark on her arm growing worse by the day she sets off to cross the continent, following the siren's song of a ghost haunting her dreams. To go down into the abyss of the Underground Pass seems like a poor decision in hindsight, and she soon begins to realize there is much more at play here than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! I recently was reminded that I started this fic a long time ago (many years ago now) and never actually finished it, and as I was rereading it and all of its parts I decided that I could attempt to do a rewrite to do it some better justice. P: At the time it was written it was kind of self-indulgent and included a lot of headcanons about characters that hadn't quite been fleshed out in lore yet (including the older models that had very little detail of character appearance!) so some of this deviates from actual canon. That's your fair warning! 8 ) 
> 
> I make no promises of finishing this and I also apologize if any of the lore included is dated as it's been some time since I've been up to date on current content.
> 
> That being said if you do decide to read, please enjoy! A special shout out to a person who knows who they are for reminding me about this labor of love. P:

Menetae couldn’t breathe.

It was a nightmare, it wasn’t real, it was a _dream_. It hardly mattered; her lungs still burned for breath she didn’t actually need. Around her darkness pressed from all sides, the cloying taste of stale air inescapable. She stumbled on the rocky ground, her footsteps echoing far too loudly. Why were they so loud? Surely she’d be discovered at this rate, surely he’d-

_Come back for me_.

His voice- soft and lilting like it had always been- set her on edge and only quickened her pulse. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him; Iban was dead and gone three years past and no matter how much his memory haunted her he was _never coming back_.

Menetae’s chest ached for air and if she hadn’t been so sure this was nothing but a nightmare she certainly would have collapsed by now. Each move she made brought her closer to the dim light in the distance, the lingering voice only driving her to run faster from whatever was pursuing her.

_This was all only the beginning_.

It was so close she could feel the cool breeze on her skin, feel relief begin to seep into her weary bones. She broke the threshold of the cavern and felt the rush of night air in her lungs. Menetae doubled over to breathe deeply. For some time she stood still and panted, desperate to catch her breath.

When she finally straightened again it all came rushing back to her in the shape of a slender figure waiting in the entrance of the tunnel. Menetae could _feel_ his eyes on her, unwavering in their judgement. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. It wasn’t- it couldn’t be- Iban was long dead and gone, gone, gone.

_I need you_.

 

. . .

 

Menetae’s eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of breath. To assume she would ever get used to waking from a nightmare was apparently a grave mistake. She pulled herself up in bed, muscles quivering as she greedily sucked air into her burning lungs. Goosebumps spread across her skin, damp with cold sweat.

Despite what she told herself this one had felt _real_.

Menetae’s fingers trembled as she dropped her head into her hands, her limbs feeling as if they were filled with lead now that she was up and awake. The room hadn’t changed at all since she’d tried to fall into fitful sleep only a few hours ago; it was darker now and less footsteps crossed by the door, but every item was in the same place she’d left it. The window was still closed, the latch still across the doorway. By all accounts she was totally fine.

Then again, people who were _fine_ didn’t cross the continent looking for a ghost.

She’d come a long way from Al’Kharid, moving west to chase a siren’s call that whispered in the corners of her dreams and in the predawn hours she often spent stoking a dying campfire. The further she went the worse the nightmares had become, and as of yet Menetae had hardly found a scrap of reason as to why.

She drew a long, shuddering breath and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. There would be no more rest for her tonight; after the third time this had happened Menetae had learned trying to go back to sleep was often worse than the first time around.

The mattress creaked beneath her weight as she slid herself out of bed, crossing the tiny inn room to the wash basin beside the window. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, the darkness playing off of her features in such a way she looked almost like a ghost. A pass of her palm over the candle placed there lit the wick and spread warm light across the wall. With the gently flickering flame she looked into the mirror again, relieved to see that with the shadows chased away she looked normal. Her fingers absently rubbed the scar across the bridge of her nose.

Despite everything, Menetae had hardly changed in the last few years. She looked more tired as of late- and perhaps a little more gaunt than usual- but her grey eyes still had that hawk-like look as if she were constantly analyzing her surroundings. These days she _was_ , at least. She’d been seeing shadows that weren’t really there and every little thing creeping at the corners of peripherals served only to set her further on edge.

Honestly, she was exhausted from all of this.

A sudden knock at her door startled her; she extinguished the candle and practically leapt across the room for her cloak, slinging it around her shoulders and pulling the hood up over her head in one fluid movement. Almost as an afterthought she grabbed the dagger resting on the bedside table, finding solace in the familiar weight in her hand. Her fingers anxiously flexed against the leather-wrapped handle.

The door creaked open at her touch, revealing a young boy standing nervously on the other side. She eyed him critically, observing the way he shifted his footing under her scrutinizing gaze. Just a messenger, then. A pin was stuck into the collar of his shirt- Zamorak’s insignia gleamed in the dim lighting of the inn’s hallway.  
  
“For the ranger,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes entirely, “A letter and a request.” A scrap of parchment was offered to her in his clenched hand which she accepted with some degree of caution. When her fingers brushed his skin Menetae could feed the child trembling; she waved him off and watched relief cross his features before he quickly disappeared down the hall without another word.

With some hesitation she stepped back into her room, latching the door again and crossing the room to relight the candle on the bureau. In the flickering light her eyes scanned the page, the handwriting surprisingly neat and easy to discern. It was an invitation to exchange information signed only by the mark of Hazeel, detailed instructions on locating the building laid out for her. Whoever had sent this must have assumed she would accept without question and although the thought irritated her she had to admit they were mostly correct. She had her doubts, but this was tempting enough. The offer had definitely piqued her interest.

Menetae set to gathering the few things of hers scattered around the room, strapping on her leather armor as she went. She fiddled with the vambrace on her right arm, brow furrowing as it rubbed uncomfortably against the odd burn she’d been nursing for the better part of a week. As far as she could remember she hadn’t actually injured herself, but even with a slew of different healing salves and what little magic she possessed it only seemed to slowly be getting worse. She hardly had the time to investigate it further and resigned to just dealing with the low ache on a day to day basis.

With her quiver at her back and her bow in hand she tugged her cloak back around her and silently slipped from the room, making her way out of the tiny inn without drawing any unwanted attention to herself. The fewer people that saw her come and go, the better; it was far easier to ghost from one town to the next without anyone following her trail.

The night air was cool and crisp when she stepped out into the empty street. Menetae hadn’t bothered to check the time, but the moon was still settled comfortably in the sky. In a few hours people would begin to rise and begin their daily routines and with any luck she would be long gone by then.   
  
Despite the clear directions in the note, the streets were winding and cut to the left or right at odd angles. As a tracker and hunter Menetae had always prided herself on getting point one place to another, but it didn’t take long for her to feel like she was simply going in circles in search of the meeting place. Just when she was about to give up and backtrack to the inn she spotted it tucked away on a side street, it's black shingles only adding to the already dingy appearance.

It was a pub, and the directions were actually terrible.

As she approached the door she spotted a clear brand burned into the wood- Zamorak’s insignia again- and she suspected it was both a calling card and a warning. Her brow furrowed. She lifted her hand to knock at the door, but before she could someone opened it beneath her fist.

“You’re certainly not what I expected.” The man staring back at her was tall and scrawny with a mess of brown hair sticking out from under his hood. He peered past Menetae into the deserted street as if checking for any unwanted eyes, and then ushered her into the dimly lit pub and closed the door with a soft _click_ behind her.

“And you’re certainly _rude_ ,” she replied as he circled past her, going to stand on the other side of the bar, “For someone who wants to swap information you certainly know how to greet a stranger.”

The man waved her off as he ducked behind the counter. When he resurfaced he slid a mug of cold tea in front of her followed by a simple plate of bread and cheese. After a little more rummaging about he settled into a seat across from her, his hands closing around a mug that smelled suspiciously like mead.

When Menetae raised an eyebrow at him he merely shrugged in response.

“Rangers are incredibly difficult to track, you know. It’s taken me weeks to get a bearing on you.” He took a long sip of his beverage. “You’ve made it hard to get into contact with you.”  
  
“That’s the idea,” she shot back, “It’s usually that way when someone doesn’t want to be found.”

He chuckled quietly, setting his drink down on the bartop while she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. A moment passed before he tugged the collar of his cloak down to reveal a brand-like scar of Hazeel’s insignia marring the stretch of skin below his collarbone.

“People like us don’t get to stay hidden forever.” His eyes narrowed as he released the fabric, eyeing her critically from behind his shaggy bangs. “My name is Clivet.”

“I suppose you already know my name as well, then.”  
  
“Through an extraordinarily absurd amount of effort, yes, Menetae.” Clivet cocked his head to the side as if trying to gauge her reaction. “To be marked for divine purpose should be a gift and yet here you are avoiding it.”

The burn along her forearm itched quite suddenly and it took most of her discipline to avoid reaching for it. Clivet seemed to notice her flinch, however, and his gaze trailed down to the limb in question. He made no move to touch it, but it hardly mattered; the mark may as well have been on her face for how clearly he saw through her.

“It fucking hurts,” she conceded after a tense moment, taking a sip of tea, “And it’s getting worse.”

“Then you’re going in the right direction.” Clivet leaned back in his stool, balancing precariously on two legs. “Counter-intuitive, I know. Doesn’t make sense. I’ve been hearing whispers of the son of Zamorak on the rise, and now we have his old flame in flesh and blood marked for a task she doesn’t know how to complete.”

“That’s a bit personal,” Menetae cut in, setting her mug down a bit more forcefully than she had intended, “And definitely an assumption I would be _very_ careful in making.”

“Am I wrong?”

Her eyes narrowed, but it was all the confirmation Clivet needed. He brought his chair down on four legs again and folded his hands on the counter.

“I’ve been hearing rumors of a plague breaking out in Western Ardounge,” he continued, “I thought you may find this information relevant to your interests. They say a man calling himself the son of Zamorak has taken up residence in a local cave network, hindering travel and just generally making life miserable for everyone.” Clivet smiled as if finding that fact quite amusing.

“And you think it’s Iban?”

“Now, now.” He shook his head leaned back into his chair again. “I didn’t mention any _names_ , did I?”   
  
“He’s _dead_ ,” she snapped, glaring at him across the bar, “I buried him.”

“I believe you,” Clivet finally stood to pace across the empty floor, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair as he did so. “Although some Zamorakian circles believe that death is only the beginning.”

Menetae froze at his words, turning slowly in her seat to face him. She could feel ice in her veins with cold familiarity at the phrase. It had haunted her nightmares for the last two weeks and to hear it spoken aloud was something else entirely to her now. Her silence attracted Clivet’s attention and he finally met her eyes with some amount of alarm.

“I’ve had the same nightmare every night since the day the mark appeared,” she said carefully, “He always says that in some shape or form. I’d assumed it was something I heard in passing on the street, but…”

“What if it isn’t?” Clivet stopped his pacing and came back around to the counter, sliding into the seat opposite her again. “Necromancy isn’t exactly uncommon these days among the right circles, Menetae. Do you honestly think all of this is simply coincidence? Whatever your feelings on the matter you are _marked_ , ranger. Don’t forget that. If Zamorak calls eventually you will have to answer that request.”

Menetae tapped her fingers against the bar, turning over options in her head. To ignore the mark meant she’d likely continue to have nightmares and that the burn would continue to spread. Adventuring out to Ardounge to investigate hardly seemed a high price to pay for even a small shred of relief.

After a moment she reached for her mug to drain the last of her tea, setting it down carefully before she made eye contact with Clivet again.

“I’ll go.” She held her hand up when he opened his mouth to speak to silence him. “Not for you, or for your god. I’ll go for him.”


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Menetae had been staring at the sky for the better part of an hour, watching idly as light crept in along the horizon. Her campfire had gone out ages ago, the ashes cold and gray where they rested. Despite the fact that she had managed to glean some sleep this time she was still exhausted right down to her bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp when I said 'don't expect regular updates' I guess I meant it ahahhaa........ this was one of those shorter 'setting the scene' chapters way back when so it's mostly setup for the next ones! thanks for reading if you do. (:

_This was a mistake- Menetae was sure of it- and now she was in well over her head. Backing down now was out of the question. Her lip curled slowly into a soft snarl as she drew her dagger out of the sheath at her thigh, her fingers gripping the handle until the familiar weight soothed her frazzled nerves some._   
  
_“Whenever you’re ready, ranger.”_   
  
_The soft lilt of the knight’s voice nearly caught her off guard. His accent was hardly local and although he was clad in Varrock’s court armor Menetae had no trouble noting he was a fair bit slimmer than the other guards stationed around the room. This was not a man whose talents were limited to swordplay._   
  
_Menetae struck suddenly, nearly catching him off guard on the first blow. Her dagger glanced off his plated forearm, sparks flying with the scrape of metal against metal. Without the weight of plate to slow her down she was faster, more agile-_   
  
_She clearly was not paying attention, however, because as she shifted her weight to drop back around his other side the knight caught her square across the face with the edge of his gauntlet. A startled grunt was the only sound she managed as blood oozed between her fingers, warm and dripping from a split across the bridge of her nose. Was it broken? She couldn’t tell._   
  
_Someplace behind her she heard the low chuckle of the other guardsmen. It snapped her back into the present with astounding clarity; she had come all this way to make a point and it would take more than one hit to deter her from that._   
  
_Her leather armor creaked when she shifted her weight and her feet barely touched the ground as she leapt back at the man. Menetae dropped below his next swing, sliding around behind the knight far too quickly for him to keep up. When the pommel of her dagger connected with the opening at the base of his neck he crumpled to the floor, his helm tumbling across the stone with a loud clatter._   
  
_It was an unexpected upset, and Varrock’s King offered only a soft chuckle and a few halfhearted claps in response. He clearly had not been expecting this man to lose. Around the room the rest of the guards tensed, caught in an uneasy quiet._   
  
_The knight Menetae had dueled stirred after a moment, pulling himself into a sitting position. Long, black hair trailed down his back and over his shoulders, a stark contrast from the silver armor he wore. He was handsome, she noted; his high cheekbones and angular features were certainly not common in this region and she silently wondered why the man had ended up in this cesspool of a city in the first place._   
_  
When she finally caught his eye he was giving her a lopsided grin, clearly amused despite his rather fantastic loss. He shifted to stand again, reaching his hand out for her help. She took it._

 

\--

 

The dawn often served to soothe her nightmares.  
  
Menetae had been staring at the sky for the better part of an hour, watching idly as light crept in along the horizon. Her campfire had gone out ages ago, the ashes cold and gray where they rested. Despite the fact that she had managed to glean some sleep this time she was still exhausted right down to her bones.   
  
After another few minutes the sun was visible through the treeline and Menetae pulled herself upright with a quiet groan of protest. The closer she drew to Ardounge the less rest she was actually getting, and the rocky terrain was doing nothing to help the ache in her muscles at the end of each day of traveling. If she was being honest with herself she was doing her best to forget Clivet’s words and push the thought from her mind entirely, but with each mile crossed and hill climbed the mark on her armed burned more deeply and crept further across her skin.   
  
Reluctantly she finally stood, stretching her limbs with a series of soft pops and cracks. Menetae strapped her quiver into place and slung her bow over one shoulder before she kicked dirt over the remains of her fire for good measure. She had lingered long enough.   
  
Somewhere in the distance she could hear the distinct sound of roaring water, and she followed it on instinct. Everything here felt damp, and even the air felt heavy with moisture. The humidity was hardly something she was used to, although the cool sensation on her skin was certainly not unwelcome. This far west the forests were old and ancient, a far cry from the young trees and bright, bushy shrubs that littered the lands surrounding her home. Moss clumped everywhere below her feet, thick and coating gnarled roots like a winter blanket. She could get used to it, honestly. The desert was her home, but for some reason she had never felt more comfortable.   
  
Quite suddenly the ground dropped off in front of her, and Menetae swayed briefly at the wave of vertigo. Below her water rushed downwards over rocks and boulders worn smooth from years of erosion, tumbling over lips and outcroppings until it came to rest in a broad, sparking lake. Even now early-rising fishermen were beginning to appear around its edges, ready to begin a hard day’s work.   
  
It had to be Baxtorian Falls. Back home many had passed off the size and power of it as mere exaggeration, but as Menetae carefully followed the steep, winding path down towards the bottom she realized those claims had been idle desert gossip. It was easy to brush off something that could hardly be imagined in the blistering heat and with screaming sandstorms covering everything in dust, but the sheer power of water rushing down and over the rocks was something she had never seen.   
  
The thought was cut short as searing pain wicked through her forearm, and Menetae nearly crumpled to the ground at the suddenness of it. She hissed through gritted teeth, dropping down to plunge her arm into the frigid water for some shred of relief. For a long moment she remained there, steadying her breathing as the burn subsided into a dull throb that was far more manageable.   
  
After a few minutes Menetae sat back on her heels and peeled the leather of her vambrace back from her arm. The mark had certainly worsened. It was deep red with blood pooling at the surface now, angry and incredibly painful. She drew a low sigh and reached into her pack for a container of healing salve, deciding to settle on whatever small relief it would give her before collecting herself and continuing on down the trail.   
  
Menetae hadn’t wanted to really consider that Clivet- in all his apparent wisdom- had actually been correct, but the closer she drew towards Ardounge the more frequently the mark bothered her. Whatever was in play right now seemed intent to draw her further in whether she really wanted to or not.   
  
Her feet hit solid ground at the foot of the waterfall and Menetae let out a soft sigh of relief.   
  
As she made her way around the edge of the lake a fisherman and young child caught her eye, each watching their fishing line with idle interest. It occurred to her that there were people living on Gielinor that actually could manage to live out their entire lives without any major sort of conflict, and Menetae felt a sharp stab of envy at the thought.   
  
“You’re lookin’ a little worse for wear, miss,” the elder of the two said as she neared them, concern tinging his features, “Ardougne is about a half day’s walk south along the river, there’s plenty of places to rest there.”   
  
“Thank you.” The sound of her voice was entirely foreign to her for a moment and Menetae quickly cleared her throat.   
  
If they noticed her discomfort beyond the dark circles beneath her eyes they said nothing. The child waved as she continued onwards to follow the curve of the river, and as Menetae felt their lingering gazes turn back to their own lives she wished for a moment they had said something more.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
Even the city was larger than the stories she had heard made it seem. Varrock felt quaint compared to the towering ramparts and buildings of Ardougne, all gleaming white and gray and meticulously kept. Even the foliage was neatly trimmed rather than left to grow as it was back home, and where often there were potholes and deep puddles in the street not a single stone lay out of place.   
  
It was honestly all a little overwhelming for her.   
  
Menetae skirted the busiest streets the best she could, doing her best to attract as little attention as possible. She moved westward through the city, heeding the siren’s song coiling in her blood that felt as if it was urging her onwards. Another day, another time she might have taken the time to peruse the colorful, bustling marketplace but the ever-present ache in her bones kept her mind otherwise occupied.   
  
In the distance a tall, rugged wall loomed over the far side of the city. It didn’t take too much thought to piece it together; the king must have made the decision to seal off the plagued half of Ardougne, damning whoever was trapped on the other side to whatever their fate might have been. Very few people lingered out this direction, and many of the buildings here had lost the polished appearance that the rest of the city held. Perhaps the lingering reminder of what lurked beyond the wall had worn on the residents of this area too much in recent times.   
  
One house stood in the shadow below the wall, dim and ragged with thick boards nailed across most of the missing windows. Menetae paused, a niggling thought at the back of her mind driving her to approach. If this was the pull that Clivet had spoke of she could only hope that it was going to show her a way to the other side of that wall and not into something she couldn’t get herself out of.   
  
Around the back of the home she found a broken window and easily hauled herself up and inside. A thin layer of dust covered everything in the house, cupboards and chests long since opened and looted. Through the grime there was a faint trail down the hall towards the open basement door and although dread curled in the pit of her stomach at the thought she silently made her way in that direction.   
  
As she descended the stairs the pungent scent of decay became more and more noticeable. When Menetae reached the bottom she grabbed a piece of cloth from the bag at her hip, tying it around the lower half of her face if only for a scrap of relief. Her nose crinkled as her boot hit something heavy and unmoving; she decided perhaps it was better not to look if the smell of rot was any indication. Although Clivet had warned her of a plague she had not completely thought through the implications of those words, but the evidence was clear enough now.   
  
If the public knew there was a _leak_ in the barricade the fallout would be disastrous.   
  
That was a thought for another day. At the far end of the basement she could just make out a hand-dug hole in the wall, rough and unpolished but with more than enough space for her to fit through. Menetae paused beside it, the faintest draft of air wafting past. Wherever it went, it would come to the surface eventually… and it was her only lead right now. She would simply have to take the chance.   
  
In the back of her mind she swore she could nearly hear someone coaxing her onwards. Whether she actually was or if it was simply her growing paranoia was another debate entirely. On cue the mark on her arm burned low and steady, persistent in reminding her why she had already come so far. It was far too late to turn back now. One way or another she would see this through.   
  
Taking her bow in hand and drawing a steadying breath, Menetae grit her teeth and stepped into the tunnel.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to her suddenly that the air here was incredibly still, like an old crypt. What once must have been lush foliage was dead and rotted through, broken trees jutting out of the dry earth at odd angles. Menetae’s gaze swept down the hill, spotting a dark cave opening down below. With a little more care this time she picked her way towards it, eyeing the twisted stone reaching like cracked ribs towards the sky. Cold dread began to curl in her gut as she eased herself the rest of the way down the path and into the mouth of the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with the "it's been x months since an update", whoops!! 8 ) still slowly picking away at this, though.
> 
> this is one of those chapters in this fic that had a lot of weird breaks/scene changes in it, so hopefully this rewrite makes relative sense!

_ “A week out of the city and yet I still don’t know your motivations, ranger.” _ __  
__  
_ Menetae had hardly been paying the man any mind; they were stopped for the evening and she had simply taken to reading by the campfire as was her usual habit. Long conversation had never been her strong point. Slowly she looked up from her book, meeting the knight’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. _ __  
__  
_ “Do you intend to?” She didn’t wait for a reply before returning her attention to the open page, although she was no longer focused on reading the words there. “Usually such information requires actually asking first.” _ __  
__  
_ “I’m asking right now,” he cut in sharply, folding his arms over his chest, “You don’t seem the type to be simply sight seeing all the way from Al’Kharid.” _ __  
__  
_ “Just as you don’t seem the type to play pet to our region’s most controversial monarch.” _ __  
__  
_ Her words gave the man pause, and a subtle twitch at the corner of his jaw gave away more than he probably realized. Menetae drew a long, low sigh and closed her book, setting it on the ground beside her to finally give her traveling companion her full attention. He was frowning at her from across the campfire, the shadows flickering over his features. Loaded silence stretched between them, nearly palpable in the dimming light filtering through the treeline. _ __  
__  
_ “I have no desire for someone who isn’t already involved to get wrapped up in my motives,” he spoke carefully after a moment, “And I would hope so long as it doesn’t concern me that you find that notion agreeable.” _ __  
__  
_ “I believe we already agreed on our cover as we were leaving Varrock. You have my word, guardsman. Leave me out of your business.” _ __  
__  
_ He nodded to her in response, seemingly satisfied for the moment. Each of them were taking a chance in trusting the other and neither were willing to overextend. They had no reason to. _ __  
__  
_ “By the time we reach Falador in a few week’s time I’m sure we’ll be parting ways,” as he spoke he seated himself across the fire from her, resigned to settling in for the evening. “And I hope we have nothing but easy travelling ahead.” _   
  
  
…   
  
  
Menetae was certain her stomach had flip-flopped itself around in her gut more than a dozen times since she’d entered the tunnel. The stench of decay- thick and heavy in the confined space- had quickly sent waves of rising nausea through her and even the cloth over her nose and mouth wasn’t helping now. Without the light of the sun to track the hour she couldn’t place how much time had passed, but it felt like minutes stretching into days.   
  
By the time the smell waned and the air felt the faintest bit more fresh she was more than glad for it. In the dark she hadn’t been able to see what was rotting down there and at this point she didn’t care to know. It was probably better that way. Plague always promised a myriad of victims… and some things were simply better left to lay where they rested.   
  
Her boot hit the wood of what must have been the bottom step and on blind muscle memory she managed to get up to the top without stumbling any further. A flat board blocked the exit but slid away easily with the press of her palm. Clearly whoever had been working on the tunnel had not anticipated being caught and had felt no need to cover their tracks. Whatever their motivations, it was working to her benefit now.   
  
Dust stirred along the floorboards as she hauled herself out of the tunnel, blinking in the light filtering through a broken window. Menetae coughed and paused long enough to yank the cloth down from her face, leaving it looped around her neck just on the offhand chance she’d need it again. Everything was eerily quiet on this end and for a few minutes she simply sat still on the floor to catch her breath and regain her bearings.    
  
Before long the mark on her arm had settled back into its steady, persistent throbbing.    
  
She grimaced, flexing the fingers on that hand and finally resigned to continuing onwards. Carefully she peered over the windowsill into the barren street beyond. It was blessedly devoid of activity for the moment, a stark contrast to the other side of the city. The buildings here were substantially smaller and crammed closer together, a sure sign that this had once been a residential area for the poorer population.   
  
It was all too likely that the decision to wall it off had come much more easily than she initially thought.   
  
The mark stung again as if reminding her to stay on track and with a soft-muttered curse Menetae crept out the back and kept to the shadows behind the buildings. As she picked her way through the area here and there she could hear the sound of movement nearby. More than once she caught glimpses of someone- or perhaps something, at this point- shuffling between the openings. The hair at the nape of her neck was on end, her pulse pounding in her throat in anticipation of a confrontation at any minute.   
  
Tempting as it was to investigate, she kept her gaze focused towards her destination; if she survived this whole ordeal perhaps she could take the time to delve further into what had really gone on around here. Certainly the dirty details of what they’d done could stand to come to light.   
  
As she rounded the corner of the last building the steep, rocky terrain leading down to the caverns of the underground pass finally came into view. With no one visible behind her to see her slip away, Menetae carefully picked over the loose stone and rubble until she found a narrow, winding path down the embankment and followed it a little more easily.    
  
By now she could feel the siren’s call in her blood coaxing her onwards, the deep pull of it nearly overwhelming her other senses. Halfway down the path she stopped in her tracks, taking a moment to draw a long, steadying breath and ground herself back in her own skin.    
  
It occurred to her suddenly that the air here was incredibly still, like an old crypt. What once must have been lush foliage was dead and rotted through, broken trees jutting out of the dry earth at odd angles. Menetae’s gaze swept down the hill, spotting a dark cave opening down below. With a little more care this time she picked her way towards it, eyeing the twisted stone reaching like cracked ribs towards the sky. Cold dread began to curl in her gut as she eased herself the rest of the way down the path and into the mouth of the cave.   
  
Something warm and familiar brushed at her mind the moment she broke the threshold, startling her into high alert. No one stood inside the entrance. It was empty save for a scattering of bones that may have once belonged to something vaguely human. As she moved forward her boots barely made a sound against the worn stone, her path carrying her out of the dim light and into the stale air of the underground pass.   
  
Menetae reached a hand to touch the jagged scribblings along the walls as she followed the cave’s winding path. Whether it was an ancient language or simply the ramblings of a madman she couldn’t be sure, but with the sheer volume and care taken to engrave them they must have meant something to whoever had put them there.   
  
When she had been younger and busy learning the deserts of her home she had stumbled into a cave like this one. As a reprieve from the blazing sun it had seemed like a good idea initially and for a while it had proved a pleasant place to rest. Before long, however, Menetae had been quick to realize her mistake as scorpions smelling something unusual in their den had crawled out of the cracks and crevices in droves.   
  
She never made  _ that  _ mistake again.   
  
Some loose footing drew her back into the present, her focus sharpening like a knife’s edge. To her side a deep chasm ran along the edge of the path, too dark to see where it led. Curiosity caught hold for a moment as Menetae knelt to take a small stone in hand. As she released it her entire body went very still in anticipation of hearing it connect with the bottom.   
  
After two minutes passed with no sound, the low feeling of dread from earlier settled in the pit of her stomach. When she eased her way carefully along the narrow path, she did not look down again.   
  
  
…    
  
  
Somewhere deep within the pass, a storm was brewing.    
  
A long, low inhale shuddered through the man’s body as he stirred, eyes snapping open as if a blaring trumpet had sounded in the caverns. He stood in a fluid movement as if pulled by a string at first before he seemed to find himself in his body and fall into stride to cross the room. Dust swirled at his feet, his footsteps silent across the stone floor.    
  
Across the room a tall, shallow basin stood. Root and bone wound up the side of its pedestal, coiling tight until almost none of the stone beneath it remained visible. As the man came upon it the clear water within quickly swirled into inky blackness, the surface remaining still and unmoving. He passed a palm over it, robes rustling in the quiet of the chamber.    
  
Something was here.   
  
A few distorted, flickering images wicked over the surface of the basin before finally settling on one that particularly piqued his interest. For a minute or two he watched intently, his gut twisting in some sort of indescribable feeling that he had trouble placing. Usually it was easy for him to pinpoint emotion- anger, glee, satisfaction- but this one felt  _ different _ .   
  
It was bothering him.   
  
His lip curled into a snarl as he tore his attention from the basin, crossing back across the atrium to throw the doors to the temple open. This simply would not do, this strange sensation twisting in his chest.    
  
“A visitor has arrived,” he called coolly, eyeing the scattered acolytes around the area as they scrambled towards him, “I would like this one brought here.  _ Alive _ .” His eyes flashed dangerously at a particular one of the group who shrunk back a fair bit at the sudden scrutiny.    
  
“Do not  _ test  _ me on this,” he hissed, yanking the cowl of his cloak up and over his head, “I expect someone to locate them before I do.”   
  
It was a lie, honestly, although it hardly mattered to him. A good majority of the ones that had ventured into the pass to worship Zamorak’s son were already weak-willed and few were skilled in the craft of magic. Most of them were young, in need of a guiding hand… a hand that he had been willing to provide in exchange for their obedience. To send them scattering into the tunnels would be a good exercise of what abilities they had worked to improve, and the ones who did not return would at least be a source of amusement to him for a short while.   
  
A low, throaty chuckle rumbled in his throat as he turned back into the depths of his temple. He would give them a head start… but then his hunt would truly begin.   
  
  
…   
  
  
Menetae’s memory eluded her. She had been steadily making her way through the caverns for what felt like hours when she’d stumbled unexpected on a gaping, foreboding well. Had she gotten too close? As she drew a long, shaky breath she sat up from where she was laying on her side, cradling her head in her hands. A dull ache pulsed at her ribs from a split in her armor, the recent wound still sticky to the touch. Now that her focus was returning she was fairly certain she tasted blood in her mouth.   
  
Her eyes shifted upwards. The mouth of the well was far above her and left her wondering how she had even survived the fall.    
  
A scuff against stone caught her immediate attention, a surge of adrenaline hitting her and giving her enough energy to leap onto her feet. Menetae whirled, her hand going immediately for the dagger strapped against her ribs. Across the chamber a ragged, beaten unicorn swayed as if it was also having trouble standing.   
  
Her guard dropped nearly instantly as her eyes focused on a myriad of details. The creature was emaciated and filthy. A spattering of silver scars covered its hide from old wounds, while one or two new ones still seemed to be healing. Despite all of this it was watching her intently, eyes alight with something she could not quite put her finger on. The poor thing was weary beyond measure, certainly, but there was some small shred of life left within.   
  
Menetae carefully approached the unicorn, holding out a hand to show she had no intention of harming it. When it stuffed its muzzle into her palm in greeting she managed a small, tired smile. This close she could see even more old injuries and the way its skeleton was visible beneath the yellow pelt. More than likely it had been trapped within the pass for years, its powers weakened with decades of maltreatment and abuse.   
  
The thought stoked anger within her; the small herd north of her homeland was a beautiful sight to behold and this one did not deserve the fate it had been dealt.    
  
“Can I help?” Her voice was hoarse when she spoke and it took her a moment to clear her throat. All the while her hands smoothed over the animal’s forehead and neck, rubbing soothing circles against the atrophied muscle. This close she could feel the natural calm it exuded, more than welcome after the harrowing weeks behind her.   
  
The unicorn regarded her quietly, a faint thread of thought winding its way into Menetae’s mind. It was a weak, wavering hope for freedom, nearly driven to desperation after all these years.    
  
The ranger possessed little magic of use, but a weak healing spell was the best she had to give. She pressed one palm against the animal’s chest, offering the faintest wisps of magic that she had without draining herself beyond recovery. An overwhelming sensation of thankfulness rushed through her as she worked, followed swiftly by relief as the creature regained some of its strength.    
  
When she had finished, the unicorn stepped away from her, hooves light and movement easier. It offered her one last knowing look before flickering into a wisp of light, disappearing from view as the animal was able to finally make its escape after all this time.   
  
A heavy warmth settled within her even as it left her completely alone. The wound at her side ached less now, the slow oozing finally stopped. Perhaps even in its parting the unicorn had left her with some small gift.   
  
Now as creeping silence returned, she couldn’t help but miss the animal’s company already.   
  
Menetae set to gather the rest of her gear, adjusting her quiver and slinging her bow over her shoulder. The well-worn dagger was returned to its safe place against her side where it belonged and her cloak re-settled around her shoulders to keep out the cold of the deep caverns. Her arm pulsed faintly, the pain dulled considerably thanks to the unicorn’s brief touch. The matter of escaping the pass could wait until later when she had managed to find what she needed here.   
  
As she worked, the even, measured sound of footsteps met her ears. The ranger froze entirely, fear seizing her in full in that moment. However much luck she had in the unicorn finding her first… there was little chance whatever approached now would be as friendly in demeanor.   
  
From across the chamber the echoing of the steps cleared and a tall, lean figure stepped out of a side tunnel. The instantaneous feeling of dread told her more than she needed to know; whoever this was harbored a great deal of magic within them, dark and ancient the likes of which she had never seen first hand. Anxiety clawed at her chest when they stopped halfway to her, hands raising to tug back the cowl obscuring their face. Long, black hair spilled from beneath it, framing crimson eyes that burned with a far-away rage. Although anger twisted his features, he was unmistakable as if he had walked straight out of her memories.   
  
Menetae could have sworn she felt her heart stop.   
  
“Hello,  __ ranger ,” he bit out, lip curling back into a wide, toothy sneer, “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”


End file.
